


Bloody Sunday- 1905

by MamzelleCombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1905 Revolution, Gen, Imperial Russia, Imperial Russia AU, Les Mis Across History, March on the Winter Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/pseuds/MamzelleCombeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On the morning of January 9th, 1905, the working people of Russia and their families met in six spots on the industrial outskirts of St. Petersburg to petition Czar Nicholas II for working rights."<br/>Feuilly marches on the winter palace on January 9, 1905, a day that would later be known as Bloody Sunday. It is there he comes into contact with Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Sunday- 1905

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for Les Mis Across History week on tumblr.

January 9, 1905- St. Petersburg

On the morning of January 9th, 1905, the working people of Russia and their families met in six spots on the industrial outskirts of St. Petersburg to petition Czar Nicholas II for working rights. They marched, one person not distinguishable from another, all covered in the sweat and grime of St. Petersburg’s factories. Men marched silently with their wives. Women held the hands of their children till the children were too tired to walk; then they carried them. It was not the first time Feuilly wished he had family of his own to seek comfort with, and he hoped it would not be his last. Amongst all the workers only one man stood out, a student with bright blonde hair, wearing clothes that were in the style of a working man, but clearly too new to fool anyone into believing that is what he was. A student then. Feuilly scrutinized him, trying to determine what would have drawn him here when he was clearly of wealth, if the way he carried himself and chafed in the scratchy materials of his clothing were any indication. The student looked back and caught eye contact with Feuilly who quickly turned away in embarrassment. 

He flushed, and an elderly man, also alone, came up next to him and asked, “Are you ill?” He laid a hand on Feuilly’s shoulder in what would be a gesture of comfort on anyone else. 

Feuilly flinched and swallowed heavily, turning his attention away from the student “No.” He rolled his shoulders and neck. When had he become so tense? His fingers plucked mindlessly on the loose threads of his coat where a button had fallen off and never been replaced. If he concentrated he could feel every movement down to the smallest muscle, which the January cold did nothing to help. He could never keep warm and the chill made him stiff. Despite the years of near homelessness, Feuilly had never really learned to deal with the freezing temperatures. Wearing several layers helped combat the inevitable chill he caught every year, but it wasn’t illness that was causing the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach now. 

The old man removed his hand from Feuilly’s shoulder, but continued to walk beside him. “There is nothing to fear,” he said. “The Czar will take care of us as he has always done.”

Feuilly gave a small nod in response. “Yes, as always.” He said, perhaps more to assure himself then as acquiescence to the old man’s statement. For all intents and purposes there was no reason to be afraid. The march was headed by young Father Gapon, who had a sensible head on his shoulders, and whom Feuilly was familiar with through his work at St. Olga’s Orphanage. On that, petitions were an age old tradition, hardly revolutionary. Part of him was displeased by this. Petitions were good. More than that, they were safe, but were they enough? Feuilly asked himself over and over. In an attempt to placate himself he replayed the words Combeferre had relayed to him the last time they had talked.

“We must be pragmatic before we are forceful. The road to revolution is paved with the bodies of those lost. Peace will always be a better alternative to violent action. A conflagration is great, but is not the lighting of a candle greater? Give a man a candle and he will see all night. Give a man a flash, and the light will be gone in an instant.” 

In his head Feuilly knew Combeferre was right. Not just too many lives, but too many livelihoods would be lost in the attempt of revolution. In his heart Feuilly longed for revolution. Yes, a candle would shed more light, but a flash gains more attention. A flash made things happen, and Feuilly was so tired of non-action. Yet it scared him too. Combeferre told him he should meet the leader of the student group he was a member of. Les Amis de l’ABC, a somewhat whimsical pun that he had had to ask Combeferre to explain the first time it appeared in conversation.

“It is French. The French pronunciation of ABC sounds like the word abaisse, meaning the abased or oppressed, the people. We are the friends of the people.” Combeferre had said, dropping his voice low so it blended in with the low rumble of the pub they met in every week to discuss whatever topic had struck both their interests that week. He learned much about the ABC during these times, and even more about their leader, a young student named Enjolras. “You would like Enjolras. He is firm and good.”

From what he could tell, his beliefs fell somewhere between Enjolras’s and Combeferre’s. He was not as radical as Enjolras, but not nearly as patient as Combeferre. He wished for moderation, but also force. He also wished to meet the man who inspired such awe in Combeferre. These thoughts and desires jumbled around in his head, making his stomach turn even more. He shoved his hands in his pockets to warm his fingers again. The crowd would be nearing the palace soon, though it was not quite in sight yet. The old man continued to march beside him, though he had not spoken again, his eyes now trained in the direction of the palace with the steadiness of one who is without doubts. 

The crowd turned the corner, and there it was. Feuilly gasped, gaping at the sheer power and aplomb the palace oozed. It was not as if he had not seen it before, but he never failed to be astonished by the grandness of it. He could not imagine living in such a place. The amount of space alone would be overwhelming to someone who had lived most of their life in dilapidated one room apartments. Feuilly’s breath caught imperceptibly when the line of soldiers guarding the gates materialized. The crowd which had previously been calm began to tremor with restless energy. The old man next to him shook in anticipation of the proceedings. 

The voice of Father Gapon rang out from the front as he read from the petition. “Sire—We the working men of St. Petersburg, our wives and children, and our parents, helpless aged men and women, have come to you, O Czar, in quest of justice and protection. We have been beggared, oppressed, over-burdened with excessive toil, treated with contumely. We are not recognized as normal human beings, but are dealt with as slaves who have to bear their bitter lot in silence. Patiently we endured this; but now we are being thrust deeper into the slough of rightlessness and ignorance, are being suffocated by despotism and arbitrary whims, and now, O Czar, we have no strength left." 

He continued on, detailing what they were petitioning for and why. There were three sections, the basic civil liberties, legal equality, and state education; economic policies like the repeal of the land redemption tax and indirect taxation; and the working reforms, like lawful labor protection, the eight hour day, and a normal working wage. The petition was simply worded, but powerful. It called out to the emperor, asking if the strict laws in place were “in accordance with God’s commandments, in virtue of which you are now reigning?” It ended with an assertion of the direness of the workers position. “Should our lives serve as a holocaust of agonizing Russia, we will not grudge these sacrifices; we gladly offer them up.” Father Gapon ended. The words seemed to hang suspended in the air, somewhere between the front rank of men which Feuilly had found himself in, and the line of soldiers guarding the perimeter of the palace. 

When the first shot shattered the pregnant silence, punctuated by a scream of pain, no one could have expected it. The crowd which had merely been restless before, turned to chaos as soldiers fired into the crowds. A bullet whizzed past Feuilly’s head, so close he could hear it ring in his ear, and he turned just in time to the see the old man collapse against him. The dead weight bowled him over before he could see what was happening. He landed on his back in the snow, pinned under the body. He tried to push the body off, but the sheer amount of panicked people made it impossible. People no long paid any attention to where their feet landed. Someone’s foot kicked his head while he struggled to get back on is feet, dazing him. He was nearly sitting up when a woman stepped on his forearm with her heeled shoe, resulting in an impossibly loud crack accompanied by firework tendrils of pain. His scream was lost in all the others as he fell onto his back again. Black crept in on the edges of his sight. People were running and screaming all around him, but if he looked up he could catch scattered glimpses of the grey and clouded sky. 

Suddenly a there was a flash of yellow, and a voice. “Take my hand.” It was the student from before. 

“I can’t.” Feuilly said, his voice cracking on the end. A fresh wave of pain rolled over him every time his arm was jostled. His head was still in a fog, likely from concussion. Sitting up was not manageable, even if he wasn’t trapped. 

The student, seeming to just notice the old man, pulled the body up and off Feuilly, who shouted again. The pain that accompanied the sudden movement made his vision swim. Two images wavered in front of him, coming in and out of focus. The chaos around him spun in concentric blurred circles, nearly making him vomit. 

The student leaned over, gripped the shoulder of Feuilly’s uninjured arm and pulled him into a sitting position. Then the student kneeled, and with an arm under Feuilly’s, lifted him into a supported standing position. Feuilly stumbled a bit, gasping. He clutched his arm to his chest to keep it from waving about. Several more gunshots punctuated the deafening roar of the crowd. They ducked and weaved their way out of the worst of the riot. The student was remarkably quick, even when supporting Feuilly’s near dead weight. Then they slowed to a brisk run. Silent tears ran down Feuilly’s face, so he could barely see what was in front of him. 

He couldn’t be sure when it was that he passed out, but when he woke it was dark and in a room that was near empty and unrecognizable. A small jerk of his leg told him he was on a sofa of some sort as his foot contacted with an arm rest. The small movement awakened his body to the heat of the room too, and he realized he was roasting. The blanket he was under was soft and comforting, but surely too thick for a room so warm. Unthinkingly he jerked his arm to push the cover off himself, and was rewarded for his efforts with a burst of pain. He groaned softly, letting it turn into a pitiful whine. 

Whispers could be heard from the corner of the room. “He is awake.” One person said. 

“He is likely confused.” A second, more recognizable voice replied. There were rustling noises, like someone rummaging through a bag, and then gentle thudding footsteps. 

“Combeferre?” Feuilly mumbled sleepily. His vision was bleary still, but it was clearly his friend standing there. He attempted to sit up to gain a better picture of his surroundings but nearly fell off the sofa. 

Combeferre helped right him into a propped up position against the second sofa arm. “Stay still.” 

“My arm-“

“Is broken.” Combeferre finished for Feuilly. “It is a simple fracture, clean break, but it will take time to heal. It is a good thing Enjolras was there to bring you here.”

Feuilly’s breath hitched at the word broken. He could not afford that. Not now, when working conditions were only likely to get worse following the events at the palace. “How much time?”

“If you are careful, six weeks before your arm is fully functional again, though it could easily take eight to ten weeks.” Combeferre sat in a wooden chair that had been dragged over from the table and looked Feuilly straight in the eyes, “I’m sorry.” 

Feuilly diverted his gaze, doing his best to quell the rising frustration. His gaze darted around the room. It was small and dark. A fire glowed on the stove to warm the room, casting a thin light on the table where another man, presumably Enjolras, sat writing. So this was Combeferre’s friend. He looked more like a child this close, but bore himself like a young man. “Are you Enjolras?” Feuilly asked, his voice thick. 

The young man nodded his head. “Yes. And you are Feuilly?”

Feuilly nodded slowly, moving the hand of his good arm to scratch his head, and wincing when his fingers prodded a tender spot. 

Concern flashed across Combeferre’s face. “Is your head bothering you?” 

“It’s just a bump.” Feuilly said. He put both hands in his lap now, resisting the urge to keep scratching. “What happened this morning?” This question was directed at Enjolras. Feuilly remembered much of what happened before he had presumably passed out, but not what had caused the chaos or the ending result of their troubles. 

Enjolras straightened up in his seat, turning to face Feuilly. “The Czar was not even at the palace. He never heard the petition. One of the guards panicked and fired into the crowd. It is too early still to see how this will affect conditions, but the people are agitated. Revolution seems to be imminent. “

Feuilly released and audible puff of breath and Combeferre stiffened slightly at the word revolution. Slowly Feuilly said, “You are sure about this?” 

Enjolras nodded resolutely. “Quite certain.” 

Combeferre tched disgustedly. “There is still a chance for peaceful revolution. Violence is not the only option.” 

“It very well might be considering how the guards responded to a peaceful march this morning.” Enjolras retorted, calmly, but tersely. The exchange smelled of previous discussions. 

The hair on the back of Feuilly’s neck stood up. This is what he had wanted, wasn’t it? He had tolerated the events of this morning while participating in them, even hoped the petitions and marching would accomplish something, but they hadn’t. So what now? “There is no reason both may not be possible, but I am with Enjolras on this one. The guard’s violence this morning was unprovoked, but the same cannot be said of the people.” 

“And you consider yourself to be part of those people?” Combeferre asked in a moment of agitation. 

“Of course.” Feuilly said, instantly going on the defensive. “Do you?” He shot back, addressing the question towards Combeferre, but locking his eyes on Enjolras. 

“Yes.” Combeferre answered with no hesitation. “I will do what I can as I can, but I will not stop hoping for a peaceful alternative.”

“And you?” He asked Enjolras now. 

“I will be by the side of the people.” 

Feuilly nodded. He hadn’t noticed himself leaning further forward until now, and now leaned back onto the pillow Combeferre had slipped behind his back. 

“You should rest. “ Combeferre insisted. The fire was waning, and though the room was well insulated, Feuilly could feel the chill creeping in. The blankets were warm and heavy, the same as his eyelids. “There is no way to know what the future will hold, but you must be well rested when it comes.” 

Feuilly drifted off before long, unburdened by the future for now.


End file.
